


Call Me By My Name

by Iforgottocall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: #hermioneshaven, #rollaprompt, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iforgottocall/pseuds/Iforgottocall
Summary: Hermione Granger goes to the Post-War Yule Ball. Charlie Weasley has something to say. Lavender Brown probably should've been in Slytherin. Hermione's Haven Roll-A-Prompt:1st Place Winner: Best Plot Development; 1st Place Winner: Best Surprise Ending; Runner Up: Most Creative Use of Prompt
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Charlie Weasley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58
Collections: Roll-a-Prompt Writing Comp 2020





	Call Me By My Name

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta @kifiyawriter! You're an amazing friend and I value you!
> 
> In the immortal words of Joshua Weissman, "Let's do this. Shall we?"
> 
> Prompt- Post-War Yule Ball  
> Character- Charlie Weasley  
> Overall Theme- Masquerade

  
  


It began when Lavender exhorted her; in third year, Lavender had seen something she shouldn’t have and a pact developed between the two roommates. Hermione never spoke about the incident and Lavender displayed the stiff upper lip required of an English woman and hadn’t inquired into the matter after witnessing the embarrassing display. 

Having forgotten about it, with the Prince’s book beguiling Harry’s soul and Ron shoving his tongue down Lavender’s throat twelve times a day, Hermione was off guard when Lavender mentioned it.

Lavender was cashing in her silence for a favor. Her father was hosting a horribly boring masquerade party for the “Ministry fuddy-duddies” whilst Parvati was throwing the largest bash ever. Naturally, the event would be housed in a transfigured boot so Lavender simply _couldn’t_ miss it and Hermione _owed_ her. 

Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone would know it was Hermione; Lavender’d nicked a bottle of Polyjuice from her mother’s laboratory weeks ago and _all_ Hermione had to do was take it. No one would care anyway. 

“One crime,” Lavender giggled, “And, I won’t expose you.”

* * *

No one was talking to her which should’ve been a good thing. It was clear Lavender often endured such stodgy company with a vacant smile that seemed to ward her against any boring people and that reputation had followed Hermione here in her Lavender suit.

That was the worst part of the extortion plot as every snatch of conversation that flickered past her seemed more engrossing than the next. She longed to interrupt a scintillating debate about Vampiric Relations, but knew that would raise suspicion, but it didn’t stop her from gazing longly in their direction. 

Suddenly, a broad pair of shoulders erected a wall between herself and her forbidden fruit: pompous know-it-alls. The shoulder wall, _nee_ an athletically-built man, did not move out of her way as she’d expected and had, in fact, planted itself permanently in place.

Hermione cleared her throat. No response came from Master Shoulders. She crossed her arms and began tapping her foot in the rhythm of frantic fly. Yet again, no response from He-Who-Couldn’t-Bloody-Hear.

With no other British-approved tactics, Hermione settled for a hearty huff and a whispered “Well, I never.” 

The Shoulder Boulder laughed then, laughed! He turned toward her although his features were perfectly disguised without any discernible hair, eye or skin color. Proving that, at the very least, the wizard was talented. His wand-work wasn’t lazy like the other party goers who'd only made their bodies nearly translucent. No, his charm changed his skin to a color unrecognizable by human sight. Impressive. She knew that her charmwork was as equally above reproach.

  
  


He looked and even smelled like the beat between one person’s joke and another’s laughter or the tapping of a freshly minted galleon against a marble table or even better still, like a whispered melody playing as her best friend saved her from a vengeful troll... 

“Hullo, Little Flower.”

“Pardon,” Hermione asked in a voice that didn't have one hint of forgiveness. At this, his large hand covered his eyes as he chuckled.

“Not a regular flower then- a spitfire. Thanks for making this party even better.”

“Speak for yourself. I hate these ridiculous masks; imagine, playing dress up like children for an entire evening.”

He bowed his head at her neither contradicting her with a loud groan as her friends would nor ignoring her completely like adults would. He said, “Each person is destroyed when we cease to see him, then his next appearance is a new creation, different from that which immediately preceded it, if not all.”

“You quoted Proust to me?”

He smiled without reservation. “In my line of work, I have little else to ponder but the quandaries of eternity and the mythical self. 

“A line from some obscure philosophile?” He only nodded and pointed to himself. She was impressed. Any man who’d conjure that up so quickly must’ve been worth talking to.

“Enough talking. Dance with me, Little Spitfire; we have so little time before our masks drop and we are once again our pitiful selves. I like being singular, even if only for the span of an evening.”

Her finger found itself pressed into his chest. “I should be offended; how dare you speak to me in such infantile terms? Behind this mask, I may be old enough to be your mother.”

Now, he lifted an eyebrow in a way that she knew he did often and caught her pointer finger and the rest of her hand in his. “With that energetic foot tapping reproachfully at me? If you are, you’re one hell of a woman.” And with that, he quite literally swept her off her feet. 

* * *

The party was nearly over and she was wandering the gardens right outside the ballroom. She’d had enough of pretending to be her roommate and wanted the party to end. She’d lost track of her well-read companion when a gaggle of squawking women surrounded him and made off with him at such speed as to leave the mind reeling. Hermione had never gotten her dance.

A hand on her shoulder turned her around. The strong ballroom lights cascaded over Charlie Weasley’s disillusioned features. The scent of his exotic cologne told her that this was her missing sparring partner!

She put a hand to her butterfly mask (Lavender’s doing) ensuring it was still in place. Even without his impressive charms, he still smelled like quiet victory and goodness. Before either could speak, an unmasked Bill yelled, looking for his little brother. Grinning broadly, Charlie pushed something into her hand before jogging away.

Her fingers were shaking as she re-read the name on the small letter in her hand. Of course, he’d outed her disguise. It wouldn’t have been difficult to guess that she was the host’s daughter with their matching cornflower yellow hair.

_“To my spitfire, Lavender…Save one dance for me ...”_

She had two choices: honesty or fantasy. The truth would kill their connection dead: a dragon tamer and the Chosen One’s sidekick destined for battle and death? Ridiculous. But, if she remained silly Lavender Brown, the dream could go on for a bit longer. Hermione only hoped she’d have the strength to wake up when the time came. 

* * *

_Post-war_

"C'mon Hermione. I can smell you sulking from here." Sighing at her dismal reflection, she went to greet her guest. Her hair was in muggle curlers; she enjoyed the predictable results more than Sleekeazy’s which left her scalp itching horribly. To his credit, he didn’t comment on her state of undress.

"I have never smelled a day in my life, Ronald,” she countered.

He smirked- no doubt a lesson learned from his pompous girlfriend. Hermione was really trying to get on with Pansy, but the woman was a terror and further proof that Ron needed nurturing after being wounded by war. 

And, Hermione couldn’t keep her public face on and coddle him at the same time. She was just as broken but knew better than to let it show whereas Ron displayed it proudly... drunkenly. At that point, Parkinson swept in like a hawk sporting prey and cleaned up his public image. And, now there was a ball to celebrate their charade. 

Ronald was dressed fashionably- further result of Pansy’s influence- donning deep blue robes that hung on his lanky frame without making him seem twiggy or gangly and drawing attention to his baby blue eyes. Perhaps, Pansy had some good attributes, but Hermione wouldn’t go so far as admitting them aloud.

“It worked though. The ball’s in four hours and you're nowhere near dressed.” Hermione merely stared until his cheeks reddened; a clear signal that he should stop his commentary.

“You’re coming over to the Burrow so we can all arrive together? Solidarity and all that rot.”

Picking a hang-nail, she said, “Yes, Ronald.”

“Good...Try loosening up this time. It’s a ball! You know, the time to let down your knickers and have fun.”

“The term is let down your hair.”

“I’m aware.” Hermione smacked the back of his head and he chuckled idiotically. “Don’t back out. I can’t be the only one going stag since Pansy’s working. I need you.”

“Isn’t George going?”

“He rounded up Angelina; she’s helping him. He doesn’t smash his own reflection when passing a mirrored surface. Anyway, I thought Charlie and I’d go together as men about town, but he’s looking for a bird. Can you imagine? Apparently, he’s been owling her for ages and only met once."

Hermione didn’t respond immediately. She could not make her vocal cords meld in such a way as to sound like a normal human. In fact, when she did speak, it came out rather like a harsh squawk. “Some bird?...I wasn’t aware he was coming?”

Distracted, Ron began rummaging through her cupboards looking for his muggle crisps stash that he'd placed a perma-fresh and never ending refill charm on. A particularly genius bit of magic; if Hermione was honest. Ron was quite the ingenue when it suited him, and yet it rarely did; proving why their friendship was stronger than ever and their romantic attachment pronounced dead on arrival. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he continued through bites of fried potato. “Never pegged him for a sappy wanker, being a hardnose dragon tamer, but low and behold, here we are. No doubt, he’s planning some major pining that will embarrass us all. I’d go so far to say he’s worse than you.”

Voice magically returned, she hissed menacingly at the slight to her person. “What about me?”

Her friend, who wasn't immunized to her frightening demeanor, but miraculously Gryffindor enough to fake his way through, said, “Well…”

He then pushed out his chest like the proud, grandiose lion he _wanted_ to be and sputtered, “You're worse than an old maid; all the fretting you do over your _pen pal_ rather than investing in something real that may hurt you. You and my brother can mope about comparing notes.” 

Ron took one look at Hermione’s face and decided he’d overstayed his welcome. Popping away with such alacrity that would’ve impressed even the likes of Grindelwald.

It was a wise decision for as soon as he vanished, Hermione Granger was left with two choices: cry tremendously or frantically brood about the current state of affairs. In the end, overachieving as she was wont to do, and managed both. When that was over, she made a fire-call to an old acquaintance.

* * *

The Yule Ball was held in the dregs of Hogwarts’ Great Hall. The school wasn’t inhabitable and had stubbornly undone any human attempts at rebuilding it, but the minister wouldn’t have his ball anywhere else. So, where there lay rubble, bits of stone, and the putrid scent of dark curses, he’d created shining drapes that covered the room from floor to ceiling, masking the damage from view. 

Hermione squirmed in her seat clutching Charlie’s note. He’d sent it to her just as she was leaving for the Burrow. It was a plea to finally meet Lavender. He’d known that she’d needed to recover from Greyback’s attack but surely he could see her at the ball tonight?

Charlie and Lavender were cozied up whispering together as the Minister droned on about initiatives that would never help anyone. Hermione felt sick; Lavender didn’t care about being used in pursuit of Hermione’s crush and when she was called on to complete one more lie, she’d agreed. Who wouldn’t with Charlie as the target?

Letting Lavender have him was easier and probably wrong. But, if she told the truth, their innocent fantasy would die. War had stolen something integral and soft from her. And, she didn’t want her dream man to see she was barely holding it together. The war couldn’t take Charlie from her too.

But now, as she watched them, Hermione couldn’t bear her own cowardice. So she’d retreated to the lake; no one would come looking for her. Hermione could not say how many hours she sat staring at her own distorted image in the water. By the loud, consistent popping of Apparition, she’d been there all night.

The desiccated school called her- a kindred spirit. She went back to the abandoned hall. The masking drapes were gone so the hall was once again broken and desolate with only moonlight to see by.

So, she was surprised when a ministry owl handed her a letter before soaring off. It read:

_Little Spitfire,_

_I have to confess that I was nervous tonight. I had one memory of you, but when held up to the real thing, I found myself off-kilter. Is it pathetic that I still find letters easier? I want to take care of you and I promise I’ll keep you safe. I’m only sorry I didn’t come to save you during the battle and be your knight. I can be that now._

_CW_

Hermione felt her magic scorch the letter held taut between her fingers as she watched her teenage dreams burn to ash. When the dust and debris dispersed, Hermione finally cursed.

“That bloody misogynist. I protect myself.”

“There's my girl. I owe Lavender dragonhide boots.” Off to her side stood the long and bracing lines that made Charles Weasley- the creature of cherry-red triumph and still waters. 

His hands were hidden away in his pants pockets, and his svelte frame leaned against a crumbling post. His mask, made of shimmering dragon scales, was pushed up to his hairline. It infected his devil may care persona with a hint of boyishness.

But in that moment, she was reminded that he was more than a fantasy lover without substance. He was a real person with feelings that she’d been toying with. He’d been a balm in troubling times; a primal cocktail of sonnets and ruggedness that she'd lied to.

She watched as he seated himself on the splintered bench beside her. He was precariously placed and she wondered what the highlights in his eyelashes would look like dampened with fountain water.

She asked as nonchalantly as she could, “What do you mean?”

He tossed his chin skyward, making his perfectly ruffled hair even more tantalizingly mussed. She desperately wanted to... 

“Figured that note would rile you. Although the plan was Lavender's invention so I can't claim it was all my doing. ”

Afraid to hope, Hermione was silent. He filled in her gaps and her dark places with his easy grin that she realized was actually a bit wonky with one side of his lip pulled further down in the process. It was imperfect like a stain on a lily white sheet; she wanted to wrap herself in it’s warmth. In him. 

While she was speechless, he found his words and unfurled them carefully before her. “Reminded me of a dragon: hard edges but tender hearted, so I wrote _you_.” He tapped a tanned finger on her clenched fist, trapped between the material of her dress, asking permission. 

With great care, she opened her hand and he cupped it with his open palm. He did not bring it to his lips as she would have expected but instead simply held it atop her lap in silent commune. 

“You can save yourself. I knew that from the moment you huffed at me pretending to be someone else."

He took a steadying breath then went on. “I was content dancing around the subject- it felt like time stood still and we never actually left the ballroom that night. I enjoyed being your reprieve from reality; hoping words from me could be motivation to reach the victory you were fighting for. Bit full of myself, I suppose.”

“I don’t believe you’ve spoken this much in our entire acquaintance. You’re not making sense.” Liar. It made perfect sense: it was spoken in a tongue that only her soul could decipher. 

He let go of her hand to run his fingers through his hair, finally disturbing that damnable mask off his long, wavy tresses and Hermione found herself bereft of his touch that she’d long ago memorized the warmth of. 

Charlie looked at her. His blue irises were difficult to see by moonlight, despite what the romance novels said, and she wished to see them.

“Enough pretending, Hermione.” 

Her name sounded…

Precious on his tongue.

“I stopped play-acting the moment I handed you that first letter. But, you weren’t ready for us to be real. So I waited. But, it’s time. Come from behind the curtain and let me see you.”

It was all too much and she looked away. He laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t write long, soul searching letters to every girl. You were worth being vulnerable for... being hurt for.”

.

The veil surrounding her heart slipped, allowing him in. His eyes said that it was a good look on her; although, it wasn’t communicated in spoken word. “You mean you don’t enjoy analyzing Proust’s musings on the symphonic marriage of selfhood and concealment at parties?” 

He rolled his eyes while taking her knuckles to his mouth. She leaned into him and could finally see his eyes. Charlie then pulled them both to their feet and pressed her against his hard lines. 

“Let’s dance.” 

"Here?" As night crept in, the school’s battered soul woke from its turbulent slumber. Waiting on her reply.

He didn’t speak but stared at the battle-blistered hall that begged for new life. And she understood.

They swayed in the ruins mindful of the danger, respecting the dead. He lifted and twirled her whenever rubble threatened to trip her; laughing, she threw off her butterfly mask.

It landed on an abandoned, cracked portrait. Magically, his dragon mask flew next to hers. All three elements made a sculpture, because while different, they all complemented one another creating a vibrant, haunting image. The masks never left that frame. Hogwarts wouldn’t stand for it; the piece was the school’s first effort to heal on its own terms… telling its own story.

Hermione and Charlie hardly minded. They didn’t need disguises anymore.


End file.
